


Iridescent

by endofnight



Series: Gravity of Tempered Grace [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, I'm Sorry, I'm told this is very sad, Sad, sad i'm serious, very very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:29:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofnight/pseuds/endofnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire was <i>stupid</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iridescent

Combeferre

Combeferre yanked the crooked knot of his tie, barely keeping the uncharacteristic snarl from escaping. His nerves had been frayed all week; though he would deny it, you only had to look at him to tell he was on edge. 

Taking a deep breath, letting his hands hang by his side, he watched his own reflection in the mirror. He looked tired; he could admit it to himself.

There were a million thoughts flowing through his head, but they were flying by so quickly that he could no sooner open his mouth to speak them before they were gone again. 

He turned away, raising his hands to his tie once more.

Courfeyrac

Courfeyrac tied his tie neatly. His composure surprised even him. Of their band of brothers, their group of friends, he was well known as the one most in tune with his emotions. He wasn't afraid of a quick laugh, or a hearty smile, or a hug. 

He'd been the rock all week. The sea of calm, in a week full of chaos. Yes, it surprised even him.

Joly 

Joly, fully dressed, kept the anger he'd been feeling all week simmering under the surface. He distracted himself with his fresh coffee, taking a deep sip. A thought occurred to him, and he felt the wave of...what? sadness? regret?  _relief_? flow through him. He sighed, just a little sigh, barely more than a breath and sipped. The dark liquid was hot and bitter on his tongue, but he swallowed gamely. He wasn't in the mood for sugar. 

Bahorel

Bahorel buttoned his suit jacket and smoothed his lapels, looking in the small mirror over his dresser. The suit had been given to him by Enjolras for the occasion and though it had been expertly tailored, it was still a bit snug—Enjolras was a slender man. He loosened the tie just a bit. He was already having trouble taking a full breath today and who knows what would be coming in the hours ahead.

Feuilly

Feuilly finished the last of his project and carefully boxed it up, taking care to keep the box of papers tightly folded. His hands were cramped and tense from the days of folding (and not a little shaky) but he ignored them as he tied the ribbon around the box and set it on the table by his door. 

He made his way down the hall to his bedroom to get dressed.

Bossuet

Bossuet cursed and brushed the powdered sugar from the thigh of his pants leg.  _Typical, just typical_ , he thought. He wiped his hands on a damp cloth and tried to blot out the sugar on his leg. First powdered donut he'd eaten in  _years_ and he spills it on his black suit. He should've known better.

Jehan

Jehan was barely keeping himself together and he knew it. He'd hardly been able to speak all week for the ball of tears that seemed to be lodged in his throat. He shut his notebook and very gingerly, very gently laid his pen on top. He stood to shrug his suit jacket on and did up the buttons, his eyes never leaving the black moleskine.

With a deep, but shaky breath, he gathered his notebook and pen, feeding it into his bag. Glancing at the window, he added an umbrella. He could leave the bag in the car.

Marius

Marius stood still as Cosette loosened and redid his tie for him. His hands were fidgety; he clenched them together in front of him to stop them from shaking. She looked up at him with her mournful eyes, full of aching words she knew he wasn't ready to hear.

Enjolras and Grantaire

One by one, the group of friends filed into the small, dimly lit chapel. Music was piped in from somewhere; Combeferre recognized the melody as one of Grantaire's favorites, especially in recent days.

Enjolras stood, his back straight and proud and facing them. His hands rested on the edge of the casket as he stared at his lover's face.

In death, Grantaire looked peaceful, at last. The almost-always troubled expression was replaced by one of serenity, the lines that creased his brows— _the ones that crinkled around the corners of his eyes when he laughed, Enjolras thought—_ were gone. Just calm. Just peace. All of his troubles, all of the struggles he'd suffered at his own hand in recent years were washed away.

His large, talented hands-- _Enjolras tried not to think how he would never feel those hands again_ —were  folded over the chest of the soft gray t-shirt he wore. Combeferre had offered a suit of his own in which to dress Grantaire, but Enjolras knew he wouldn't have wanted it. He'd given the undertaker what he knew were Grantaire's favorite clothes—an olive drab, canvas jacket; a gray hoodie; a worn, gray t-shirt with the logo so faded as to be illegible; soft, well-loved jeans. He left Grantaire's feet bare.

Grantaire liked to paint barefoot.

Enjolras didn't move when his friends surrounded them. The time he had left to look at Grantaire's face was limited and rapidly coming to a close and he found he couldn't force his legs to move away.

He felt an arm come around his waist, caught a whiff of Éponine's perfume. Without a word, and only taking his eyes off of Grantaire briefly to be sure of his footing, he let her guide him to the front row of pews and let her force him to sit.

Still, his eyes stayed on Grantaire.

 _Is he at peace?_ His heart ached at the idea of what had been flying through Grantaire's once-brilliant mind in his last days and hours. Their time together had been amazing. It was like the beginning of their long relationship, all over again. And then one morning— _was it only a few days ago?—_ Enjolras had woken up and he was alone. Grantaire slept next to him and wouldn't wake again.

Enjolras slumped back against the pew as other mourners began to file in…crowds and crowds of them. How pleased would Grantaire be to see that so many more cared about him than he'd ever known?

Combeferre kept his eyes on his friends. Grantaire had flitted in and out of their lives for so long, he knew they all had to be struggling. He knew he had to be strong, especially for Enjolras. Knowing him, and Combeferre did, Enjolras would pour himself back into his work, ignoring the obvious until he no longer could. Combeferre had to be there to catch the other man, to make sure he didn't crumble apart. He caught Courfeyrac's eye and they shared a sad smile.

Courfeyrac could feel himself about to break. Other than Enjolras, he was probably closest to Grantaire. The pair had gone bar hopping last weekend, even though Grantaire had been doing better lately. Was it his fault, then? Were Saturday night's festivities to blame for what had happened on Tuesday?  _Would Enjolras ever forgive him?_

He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder and looked over. Joly radiated with anger under his sorrow, but he gave a kind smile to Courfeyrac.

Joly wanted nothing more in this moment than to find something to kick or hit or punch or  _something_. It was completely unlike him, but he had never felt such a deep, radiating anger before. A deep, radiating anguish. He ached to the tips of every finger and toe. He wanted to get up and grab Grantaire and yell and scream and shake him. But he couldn't. He couldn't.

Grantaire was  _stupid_.

No one knew if it was an accident or if it was intentional and that burned him most of all. _Grantaire knew his limits_ , he told himself. He'd been an addict for far too long to not know exactly what he was doing.

But then he remembered how Grantaire got on a particularly bad night, and his heart twinged, thinking that he'd blamed the man. He was obviously hurting with so much grief and pain, grief and pain he couldn't run from because it was  _inside of him_.

Any attempt he'd made to suggest a therapist or rehab to Grantaire had been laughed off, with his characteristic indifference and another pull on whatever bottle he was holding at the time.

Joly sighed, audibly. He didn't react when Bahorel nudged him with a shoulder.

Bahorel had known Grantaire the longest, though they weren't the closest of friends. They'd run in the same circles almost since Grantaire's first day at the university, if not before. He had vague recollections of seeing a young, scrawny Grantaire slipping money to college students to buy him drinks, or worse. He had even done it on occasion. Grantaire was a staple in his life that it would hurt to lose. Did hurt. He felt Feuilly shuffling around next to him on the pew and looked over.

Feuilly had carefully rummaged into the box he'd brought and pulled out a little folded up paper. He played with it, listening to the other students and friends as they each came up to say a few words. More often than not, the chapel was rocking with laughter at the stories told about Grantaire. It was clear to anyone listening that Grantaire would be sorely missed by so many.

Bossuet watched as Feuilly played with the origami swan he'd made from the plain white paper of the program one of Grantaire's classmates had made for the service. He couldn't look at the casket any longer; his eyes burned when he looked at Grantaire's sleeping face. He watched as Jehan stood, grabbing his ubiquitous black notebook and headed for the pulpit. He exchanged words with the funeral director, gave him a nod. The somber man patted Jehan on the shoulder and stepped away.

He wished that he were as good with words as Jehan was. The younger man was constantly writing, constantly scribbling a note, or penning a poem with his words in mid-air. He was as much an artist as Grantaire; today his words were as pained as Grantaire's art.

Jehan read his poem, with a stronger voice than anyone had thought possible. He directed his words to Grantaire; he kept his eyes on Grantaire from the pulpit. Though his voice cracked at times, though he had to pause more than he would've liked, he read the thing in its entirety. The chapel was silent when he finished and he made the mistake of looking at the front pew.

Combeferre looked calm, but somber. He would be quieter for a time. Courfeyrac looked horrified, but Jehan couldn't bring himself to wonder what was flying through his mind. Joly was a bundle of radiating energy. He looked both ready to strike and ready to sob at any moment.

Bahorel and Feuilly were both looking at Feuilly's hands, whose fingers Jehan could see folding and unfolding something repeatedly. Bahorel's normally proud shoulders were slumped; he leaned ever so slightly toward Feuilly.

Bossuet kept his eyes forward, staring at a middle ground somewhere between the front pew and the raised dais where Grantaire's casket— _Jesus,_ he thought,  _oh, Jesus_ —was displayed. He caught Marius's eye as he came around the pulpit; the younger man was crying openly, an arm around both Éponine and Cosette and no hands left to wipe his cheeks.

But it was Enjolras that broke Jehan's already trembling heart. The tall, strong blond man was slumped back against the rigid wooden back of the pew, his face resolute as he stared at Grantaire, a myriad of emotions swimming across his face and through his lightning-blue eyes. Tears rolled unbidden down his cheeks.

Without thinking, Jehan stepped down from the pulpit and made his way to Enjolras, crouching in front of him. For the longest moment, a lifetime in silence, Jehan didn't think he would take his eyes off of Grantaire.

But he did, flicking them down to cut into Jehan's own. Jehan squeezed his knee, offering a smile of support. He knew words, yes. He was a lover of words, he knew how to caress and stroke them so that every emotion could be pulled bleeding from a person's heart.

But he knew not the words to say now. Not when they mattered most.

He let out a small surprised gasp when Enjolras surged forward to hug him, put a hand on the edge of the pew seat to steady himself, before grasping his arms tight around him in return.

He heard a strangled sob come from Éponine to Enjolras's right.

He could hear the weepy little sounds coming from her brother, Gavroche. His foot began to go numb.

Still, he crouched there, holding onto Enjolras until the other man pulled back with a nod. He didn't smile, he wasn't able to do that yet, but Jehan saw the thanks in his eyes.

Without a word, all of the friends shifted down so Jehan could squeeze between Enjolras and Éponine . He did, keeping his arm around Enjolras's shoulders.

After a few more students came up to share kind words, after the chapel was silent for a moment except for the sounds of the mourners' aching thoughts, the funeral director asked if anyone else had anything they wanted to say. Jehan felt Enjolras tense.

Enjolras knew, as Grantaire's lover, as his partner, that he wasn't expected to get up in front of the crowd and say anything. He was widower and widow in one, and this funeral was more for him than anyone else. He suspected that Grantaire would be pissed he'd been forced to put on such a show.

He uncrossed his legs, shifted to get up, and felt Jehan's arm tighten around him. He glanced at the man to his right, and said his first words of the day— _It's alright—_ his voice was rough. When was the last time he'd spoken to anyone? He no longer had a partner in the morning with whom to spar over the news.

He got up to the pulpit and looked out at the crowd—standing room only in the back, Grantaire would be ridiculously tickled in an effort to hide how touched he was—and just sighed. But the microphone was on, and it was heard throughout the chapel. The crowd shifted with more breaking hearts.

Enjolras opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His eyes and his throat welled with tears. He shut his mouth again. It appeared that in killing himself, whether through accident or design, Grantaire had also killed his lover.

He swallowed and tried again. If he had not known he was speaking, he wouldn't have recognized his own voice. Gone was the deep, resounding echo: Here was a man broken by the loss of someone more dear to him than he'd ever realized.

"I love him. He knew it. I told him. I don't…don't know if I ever said it in front of our friends. This is probably too late. But I love him." And, quieter: "I miss him."

And then he stood there, tears dripping again, making no move to wipe them away. Days of not speaking to anyone should have left him with a wealth of words to share and yet…he had nothing to say. The one person he wanted to talk to was gone.

~~~

After the burial, after the crowd was gone, after the friends had stood behind Enjolras as he watched the dirt cover his lover's coffin, they were walking slowly through the park. A few friends of Grantaire's had offered to host the lunch at Grantaire's favorite bistro. Enjolras had elected to walk for the fresh air, and his friends had joined him without a word of dissent.

"Wait," Feuilly said, as they crossed a bridge over the swirling river. "I have something. For Grantaire," he said, glancing at Enjolras. He didn't meet Feuilly's eye.

Feuilly fumbled with the box and Éponine went over to help him, unfolding the birds at Feuilly's instructions and letting them float down into the water. 

"A thousand paper cranes," Jehan breathed. He looked up at Feuilly's face. Feuilly nodded, not wiping the tears from his cheeks.

"What is it?" Enjolras asked. "What is it?"

"It's a Japanese legend. If you want a wish to come true, you fold a thousand paper cranes and let them go. They have to be made by the same person for the wish to come true. In the case of a funeral, others can make the cranes for the decea…for the person who's passed on, but the wish goes to them before they go to heaven."

Bossuet, Marius, Cosette, Éponine, Gavroche and Bahorel ran across the street to watch the cranes float in the current as they made their way downstream.

Enjolras watched them, looked back toward the way they'd came. From the cemetery. He knew it was a walk that would become familiar. He felt a nudge against his arm and looked down. Courfeyrac held a small red and gold crane out to him.

"It's the last one," he said. "Feuilly wanted you to throw it."

With shaking hands, Enjolras picked it up reverently. He looked at his friends, those watching the cranes and those watching him. He went over to the stone wall and looked over at the water, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

He lifted the crane to his lips, and whispered: "I'll be ok, I promise."

He let it fly.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.
> 
> For reference, the song that caused this was "Iridescent" by Gavin Mikhail.
> 
> Blame him.


End file.
